


His Marshmallow Girl

by avianbrother



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Image, Chubby Reader, F/M, Fluff, Food Porn, Mild Angst, Praise Kink, Reaper is a hopeless romantic, Reaper loves thicc girls, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 21:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12284745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avianbrother/pseuds/avianbrother
Summary: You never thought you would have a secret admirer. You certainly never expected it to be someone like him.





	His Marshmallow Girl

You aren’t sure when this bizarre courtship started, so busy with your many tasks you never really stopped to think about the little things piling up. It began with small, odd joys. A new pen and cute stationary the day after you mentioned to a coworker you needed more. The vent above your desk ceasing its constant rattling when you made an offhand remark to the maintenance staff. An extra plate of the _good_ steak from the cafeteria left on your desk after you were delayed by a meeting. At first, you chalk it up to friendly coworkers, even though you had well-founded doubts any of them were _that_ nice. When the small porcelain vase, filled with a collection of tiny meadow flowers ends up on your desk, you immediately get suspicious.

Your position at Talon is mid-tier, meaning you have contact with numerous agents and staff members up and down the chain. Any one of them could have been behind the acts that were steadily building up. But the eternal question that nags at you as you work is…why?

To say you don’t fit the Talon image is an understatement. You’re thick and curvy and you know it. You have soft chub around your tummy and hips, not a single hard edge to your features. While there isn’t any obvious body-shaming or harassment, there’s a definite feeling that your body type is neither ideal nor in style. It isn’t much of a sore point, given you’re exceptional at your job and the job takes over your time. There’s the occasional skirt chaser that would make passes at you, certain in their mind that you’re an easy lay and they could bust their nut before skipping out on you. No, you’re too smart for that trick. And you are nowhere near that desperate. It brings you petty satisfaction when you pass an offender’s name to female colleagues and they proceed to avoid him like the plague. But beyond those human trashcans, you receive very little romantic or sexual attention.

So here you are, studying the accumulation of “gifts” you’d been given, some of them listed on sticky notes, trying to figure out who was toying with you. There are plenty of people who could’ve done it, and yet you can’t think of a single person who _would_. It was clearly some attempt at courtship, because if it was simply friendliness, someone would have mentioned it by now. The uncertainty of the situation bothers you. The change in treatment and lack of specific reason bothers you.

Going down your mental list, you quickly strike off Widowmaker. She has a tendency to tease and manipulate her fellow Talon members, but unless you’ve done something to seriously spite her, you are below her attention. You pick up the vase. It didn’t fit her taste in mind games, anyways. For a moment, you consider Sombra. She is the mischievous type, and she seems the most likely to flirt in a hidden, roundabout way. Or perhaps this is her version of a reward.

From your place in Talon, you gather all sorts of gossip, ranging from the vanilla office gossip to news about higher ups and grisly mission details. Being a smart girl, you of course share the juicy bits with her. And it’s really fun. Sometimes Sombra knows the latest word before you do, but you can tell she enjoys the act of spreading the news. Despite her reputation, she’s good at keeping certain information quiet, and you trust her not to start any feuds. Could this be her backwards display of friendship?

As you sort your thoughts, the woman herself appears beside you, startling you.

“Can you not???” you ask frantically, barely saving the vase from shattering on the floor. She chuckles, clicking her nails on your desk as she perches on the edge.

“Why so nervous, amiga? Don’t tell me that pasty Andrew has been trying to get creep shots again. You really should tell management about that.”

“No, no, he’s not the problem—or, he might be, but he probably isn’t and not for the thing you think.” She furrows her brow and purses her lips at your confused ramblings. You sigh and slump in your chair.

“You mind explaining that again, and make sense this time?”

Figuring you might as well be honest, you hold up the tiny vase and gesture to the pile you made. “I keep getting this weird…gifts? I don’t know how long this has been going on, but it’s bugging the shit out of me. You aren’t the one behind this, are you?”

To your surprise, Sombra expresses a mix of shock and confusion, picking through your sticky notes and examining the vase and cute little stationary set. She shrugs, pulling up her portable screen and flipping through profiles of various Talon agents.

“I’ve got nothing on this, chica,” she admits. She tilts her head, tapping a clawed finger against her temple as she looks through potential suspects. “Maybe you have a secret admirer.”

“Maybe, but I just want to _know_ who it is,” you whine. “With my luck it’s some sleazy janitor or one of the field agents trying for a quickie.”

She tsks. “Please, none of them would go to that much effort.” She closes the window with a beep. You sit up and try to focus on your actual work. “I’ll keep looking and let you know when I find something, okay?”

“Thanks, Sombra,” you say, making a half-hearted smile. She cloaks and you feel the air shift as she leaves. You take a deep breath and crack your knuckles, determined to get back on track.

Your aspirations crumble when hardly twenty minutes later, a cloud of black mist rises in the doorway to your office, giving you enough time to straighten your station and rise from your seat.

“Hello Reaper, sir,” you say when his body completely solidifies. He takes a moment to look around your small work space before staring at you through black holes.

“Agent.” You are technically a reconnaissance agent, not that you see much action or anyone in your level bothers to call you by the appropriate title. You quickly run through the tasks in your queue, worried that perhaps you were behind or that you missed something important. It was rare for you to see him outside briefings and even rarer for him to come to you directly.

“Did you need something from me, sir?” He’s silent and you slowly follow his gaze to the notes and trinkets still on your desk. You blush and shove it all to one side. He stiffens. “I’m sorry about that, someone has been leaving tokens on my desk,” you hastily explain. “I’m not sure who it is, yet.”

“Receiving unwanted attention?” he asks. You shake your head.

“No, just a bit surprised by it. Nothing you have to worry about, sir.”

He hums, caressing the tops of the flowers with the tip of a claw. He doesn’t normally unnerve you, but the silence and the precision with which he moves does nothing to help your present anxiety.

“Do you like it here, agent?” he suddenly asks. You’re unsure how to answer until he clarifies, “Do you like it behind a desk, agent?”

The question is odd coming from him, but you know he’s always searching for the best talent, always looking for ways good agents can be put to use, so you take it as a compliment that he’s asking you.

“I miss doing undercover work,” you reply. “I was good at it, but I know I’m not exactly…” He looks at you with those empty circles and you find yourself struggling to say what you mean. “I know Talon doesn’t need my expertise at the moment.”

If you were blunt, the desk job sucked. Every day, you looked over satellite images and listened to audio recording, scouring for useful information. It was a necessary job, one that required a human sense that the computer programs were lacking. But fucking hell, did you hate it. You hated sitting around while your ass feel asleep, sifting through the grains to find the exact one Talon needed. The reason you were so good at undercover work and field reconnaissance was because you looked nothing like what people expected an undercover agent to look like. You were cute and plump, and depending on how you dressed and did your makeup, could look anywhere from a young teen to middle aged. It was an exciting job, but Talon rotated you out in favor of the military task teams that spent more time busting down doors than they did observing the surrounding area.

After a few minutes Reaper says, “I’ll see what I can do.” He turns to the door and you barely catch him before he turns to mist, shuddering and looking over his shoulder at you when you grab his coat. You shrink away slightly, aware that you invaded his space.

“Is that all, sir?” you ask meekly. He tilts his head.

“If you’re interested in doing more, meet me tomorrow at the shooting range so you can practice your skills.” With that, he dissolves and moves through the hall like a shroud.

You sigh and sit down. You stare at your computer screen. Then you pull off your lanyard, using the solitary key hanging from it to unlock the bottom drawer of your desk. Your sidearm is well maintained despite its disuse. It fits perfectly in your grip. You make certain the safety is on. Taking up proper stance, you aim it at an imaginary target on the floor. Squeezing the trigger feels like hugging an old friend.

~~~

You arrive at the time Reaper messaged you, trading your usual office attire for something more practical. If he’s happy to see you, you can’t tell. No one else is in the shooting range, so you take the aisle beside his.

“You need a pistol?” he asks, already leaning back towards the gun cabinet just in case.

“Nope, got this puppy right here,” you say with a smile. He holds out his hand and you give him the pistol to check over.

“Standard blaster, a decent choice.” He aims it down range, though his clawed hand makes for clumsy wielding. He returns it to you and stands slightly behind you. He gestures to the prepared targets. “When you’re ready.”

You aim for the center of mass rather than the head. Your first shot is off, leaning to one side and a bit too high. You grunt in dissatisfaction, but rather than letting it get to you, you take a deep breath and readjust yourself. The subsequent shots are on the mark, tightly grouped. A few of your groups are off center, but still small and tight, no bigger than a dime when you finally stop to let your blaster cool and press the button at your station to bring you the paper target. All your shots had hit the paper, soothing the worry that you would be too out of practice.

Reaper makes a noise of approval, perhaps the closest you’ve ever gotten to praise from him. He gently takes the target and places it in a large scanner to add it to the stats on your employee database.

“Nice job,” he says as a digital copy of your target pops up, the groupings and their scores marked. “You don’t like headshots, do you?”

“I thought it best to aim for something a little easier, since I haven’t shot in a while,” you reply. “Didn’t want to go right for headshots and miss like an idiot.”

“Fair enough.” He punches in your name and your previous marksmen scores and target practices pop up. You wince, noting you relied on body shots. “What if you were on mission and they were wearing body armor?”

“Well if I was on a recon mission and I was undercover I wouldn’t be fighting guys in body armor,” you argue.

“Missions can always go south, agent. You get caught or your mark makes a run, you have to shoot with no hesitation.” The soulless lenses send a chill down your spine. “So tell me, what do you do?”

You don’t have a retort. He was right, though. You couldn’t rely on every factor working in your favor. The pride you had begins to wane, and you can’t help but deflate a bit. Claws bite into your shoulder, and he jerks his head towards the station.

“Come on. Get back in line and practice some more. It’s the only way you’ll get better.” His voice isn’t as rough and harsh as usual. Perhaps he was like this with all the agents under him, after all, you’d never personally trained with him and gossip about the Reaper hardly ever reached your ears.

You take your position, this time Reaper stands closer and to your side. “Aim for the head,” he commands. First shot lands further south, beneath chin level rather than the forehead like you were hoping. A small sigh escapes you. Reaper must have noticed, because he moves in to correct your posture and straighten your wrist, taking great care not to scratch you. “Now try again. Focus on your task, take even breaths. Try to aim for the nose instead of the forehead.”

Each progressive shot gets better, forming a central cluster around the nose and eyes. Every couple of shots, Reaper will come close, making minor adjustments before pulling away. His proximity makes you aware of just how large and muscular he is. For a moment, his chest presses into your back while he’s checking your alignment. Warmth rises in your cheeks but you suppress the urge to lean into him. He’s your boss, you remind yourself, don’t be coy.

As you continue your practice, you get the feeling he’s staring at you, or rather, staring at your chest. You tried to find a shirt that wouldn’t show off any cleavage, a feat in and of itself considering how busty you were. You’re well aware of how your breasts pushed together each time you put both hands around your pistol. But whenever you glanced over, his bone white mask would be facing down range. Obviously it was just your imagination, because you never heard of Reaper being interested in anyone except Jack Morrison, and you were pretty certain it was a purely hate fuck sort of interest.

“That’s enough for now,” he says after you’ve done several targets. You repeat the process of bringing them in and scanning them, letting the computer collect the data before you chuck the targets in the trash. It wasn’t the most efficient or the most advanced shooting range, but it was good enough.

“Get in here a couple times a week,” he orders as you get ready to leave. “Once you’ve polished your skills, we’ll upgrade you to moving targets.” He dismisses you with a wave.

Confidence and pride blossom once more, and your steps are light and bouncy as you return to your office. But everything crashes to a halt once you step inside.

On your desk is a small plastic pastry container. The flowers in the vase have been changed to fresh ones of different color. In the container is some chocolate mousse confection, the fancy kind you would order for dessert at a high-end restaurant. It’s still cool to the touch, meaning whoever your secret admirer is brought it rather recently. There’s a delicate spoon held onto the lid with a black ribbon. As suspicious as the gift is, you can’t deny how delectable it looks. You undo the ribbon and remove the top, inhaling the rich scent. Long ago, you learned life was too short and full of strife to deny yourself the simple pleasures. And that included food. You spoon a small bite into your mouth, getting some of the whipped cream as well. The noise you make would be embarrassing but you honestly don’t care. You savor the taste, letting the expensive flavors melt on your tongue. It wasn’t often you got to treat yourself. As you enjoy the rest of your dessert, the flowers seem to smile at you, sharing in your simple happiness.

~~~

Over the next three weeks, you manage to improve your consistency on the shooting range, your groupings getting steadily better in inches and half inches. You don’t expect to see a massive change overnight, and the increments of success bring you joy. As the days pass, you don’t receive any more gifts, though once the flowers begin to wilt, you’ll come in the next day to find them replaced with new ones and fresh water.

You return from your latest round of practice feeling peppier than usual, and find another dessert waiting for you on your desk. It takes you a while to recognize it, as you’ve only ever seen them in pictures.

It’s an elaborate savory Japanese parfait, piled high in a tall glass like a sundae. A squeal of delight escapes your lip as you settle in your chair and dig in. You don’t know where or how your secret admirer got it, but they certainly understand your appreciation of food. At the top of the whipped cream is a small pastry puff, similar to the taste and texture of pancakes, shaped like a cartoon skull and with a creamy red bean filling. Black ribbon wraps around the base of the glass, coming together in a neat little bow. You take your time to indulge in each layer, tasting the different flavors.

Shortly after you start eating, the telltale black mist rises by your desk and Reaper cocks his head at the scene before him. You blush and wipe the cream from your lips, turning an even deeper shade of red when he watches you suck the sticky leftovers from your finger.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you mumble, mouth half full. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No issue, agent.” For once, you’re sure he actually means it. He gestures to the parfait. “Another present?”

You nod. “Yeah, it’s one of those sweet and savory Japanese desserts. I’ve always wanted to try some.”

“Then don’t stop on my account.” It comes out like a purr, and you suddenly feel like a mouse, uncertain if he’s toying with you. He’s always been very professional, and you find it uncharacteristic that he’d stop and let you eat a dessert when he probably has other tasks in mind. You hesitate. “Go on,” he says gently. You give him a soft smile.

“Thank you.” It’s awkward looking at him while you eat, so you keep your eyes focused on the food, though eventually they close as you concentrate on the flavors. He stands there, arms crossed and leaning his hip on the desk. You know he’s watching you, but you’re surprisingly unafraid. When you finish, you set down your spoon and wipe your face and brush off any crumbs.

“Was it good?” he asks.

“Mhm, very good. I didn’t think you were a food person, sir.”

He shrugs and gazes into the distance. “Abuelas will do that to you,” he says, “I learned to cook so I could get away from the shitty military food. Talon isn’t so bad, at least they have—“

“Steak,” you say in unison. You giggle as the brow ridge on his mask raises a bit.

“It’s okay,” you admit, “but they don’t always let the meat rest properly. Half the time it comes out too dry.” You sigh wistfully. “But you can’t expect three star results from a shoestring staff, can you?”

“No, you can’t.” He tilts his head and hums thoughtfully. “You can give my cooking a try.”

Your heart stops beating. You blink owlishly at him, at a loss for words because, holy fuck, did he just ask you over for dinner?!

“Umm, are you sure that would be wise, sir?” You twist the hem of your shirt and bite your lip, glancing at the floor when he cages you in, a clawed hand gripping the back of your chair and the other scratching into the cheap laminate of your desk. “Wouldn’t that be a bit unprofessional?”

His laughter is warm and throaty, unlike his usual dark cackle. “It’s not a date. You won’t get in trouble.”

Well…there’s no one up the chain who could reprimand the both of you if someone called you unprofessional. Reaper resides in a bizarre limbo between boss and hired gun; while the head of Talon makes the business decisions and picks where the strike teams go, Reaper is the sole leader on missions. Any field agent would tell you they respect him or Widowmaker more than the suit at the top. So if Reaper says something is okay, then it’s perfectly okay, right? And to be quite honest, sampling his cooking sounds rather fun.

“Alright, I’ll give it a shot. You better not give me food poisoning,” you tease.

“I won’t.” He straightens up. “Wait outside my room at eight o’clock tonight, I’ll let you in.”

“Is that all you wanted, sir?” you ask, remembering he never gave you a reason for his presence.

“Hmm? Oh. Thought I’d give you feedback on your performance at the range. You’re getting better. I want to see you try moving targets soon, got it?”

You nod and he responds with a grunt. Then for a seemingly endless moment, he slowly bends forward to gingerly take your chin, his talons barely scraping your skin. Mist swirls up and forms into a square of black cloth that he uses to wipe your cheek. And then the cloth falls apart and the mist slinks into his cloak.

“You missed a spot.”

Just like that, he’s gone, clouds of black kicking up in his wake.

~~~

You aren’t sure how to dress for the occasion. Baggy sweats and tops are a no-go, you decide, and so is anything you’d wear to the office or practice range. Eventually you settle on a nice skirt and t-shirt combo, comfy and casual enough that he won’t think you’re trying too hard.

Reaper’s room is on the outer edge of the living quarters, placed near the strike team agents. Only a dozen or so office workers stay on base, the rest commute from home to maintain the covers of Talon’s legitimate businesses. Like you, the other workers that stick around are varying degrees of field agent—recon scouts and undercover operatives. While the rooms lack in size, it saves you the cost of renting an apartment and getting a car and gas.

You knock on the door and wait. Minutes pass and you worry that perhaps you had the wrong room number, but then it opens and Reaper is standing in the threshold. He’s sans gauntlets and the ammo belts, allowing you to see the scars that trail up his arms and accentuate his pallor. Instead of his usual mask he’s wearing a half-mask, a skull missing the lower jaw piece, and it occurs to you that he probably has different masks for different purposes. Without the obstruction of his mask, you’re able to see a neatly trimmed beard and a hint of scarring.

He ushers you in and you’re taken aback by his accommodations. It’s more of a suite than a singular room. Connected to the common area is an open kitchen, and through an open door you spot a bedroom and adjacent bathroom. The décor is mix-and-match, but there’s a definite color scheme of dark neutral tones and strategic pops of red, blue, green, and purple.

“Come sit,” says Reaper, pointing to his small kitchen table. One of the chairs is mismatched, telling you he doesn’t have guests very often, and it fills you with pride to know you’re among the rare few allowed in.

He stirs a pot on the stove. To the side is a dish of wild rice and vegetables, still steaming, and chicken breasts sprinkled with an unknown spice. “We’ll eat soon,” he assures, “I’m finishing the sauce.” His voice sounds less dry and gravely without the mask.

“It smells really good,” you say with a smile.

“It will taste even better.” He turns off the burner and lets the pot cool before dishing up a plate for each of you. He sets yours down in front of you, a knife, fork, and napkin already waiting. Then he seats himself and smiles at you. “Tell me if it’s too hot.”

The chicken breast is laid on the bed of wild rice and cooked veggies. The sauce is a creamy red, and you can taste tomato and peppers and shredded herbs. It soaks into the rice and when you bite into the tender chicken, it melds with the juice to create a pleasant heat, on the cusp of being too spicy without overpowering the other ingredients. You hum and close your eyes, taking it in.

Finally you open your eyes. “This is fantastic.” His grin warms you more than the food and makes your heart flutter.

“I’m glad you like it.” There’s an ease to his voice you can’t explain. You’ve never heard him use this kind, even tone with anyone and it scares you and delights you all at once.

“And here I thought you only ate souls,” you joke. He chuckles.

“Only when I’m working.” And then he turns his attention to the food and you watch as his ashy lips envelop a piece of meat. Such a simple act, yet it seems too human for someone like him.

Something you learn about him is he isn’t one for conversation even behind closed doors. A couple times he asks about your work and how you feel about your progress, but these are brief snatches that punctuate the companionable silence.

Then after a long stretch of quiet he says, “You look cute when you eat.”

You almost choke and you stare at him, wide-eyed and shifting anxiously in your chair. It’s not so much the comment that surprises you—though it still does—but the serene… _affectionate_ smile he wears. Your heart still flutters against the fear that closes in on it.

There’s no chance for you to think before he’s there, placing a confectionary container in the middle of the table. It’s tied with a thin black ribbon.

Everything becomes clear and then the world quickly plunges into needles and ice water as you look up at him, standing beside you with a concerned frown.

“You.” Suddenly your throat is very dry and it’s hard to make a sound. “All this time, it was you.”

“Yes…” He reaches for you, a cold hand stroking your shoulder.

Too much, it’s all too much as a torrent of conflicting emotions overtakes you and you find yourself pressed against the wall, Reaper moving with unnatural speed. He lifts you like you’re nothing, bracing your back on the wall and putting a thick thigh between your legs to rub against your clothed heat. A growl escapes him when you push on his chest. Anger, sorrow, and disappointment are evident even with his face half covered. You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes when he loosens his grip. The words are struggling to get out yet somehow you manage to speak.

“Why?” you ask through sobs. Memories of being used and rejected by many a partner fill your mind. All the years of repressed body image issues and self-hate burst forward, stinging like a fresh wound. Never in your life would it be possible for someone as hard-edged as him to want someone like you. “Why?! I’m nothing! I’m just a fat desk jockey.”

He stiffens. His nails dig into your hips until he slowly relaxes. Then he balances you on his leg, and every so steadily pulls down his hood. He unclips the back of his mask. He tosses it aside and cradles your chubby cheeks in his worn, calloused hands.

His eyes are beautiful, a ring of warm, flickering red against a pitch black sky. They lock with yours.

“Yes, you’re fat. And you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.” He wipes your tears with his thumb. “Why did I pick you?”

Hands slip under your skirt and he squeezes your thick thighs and your round ass cheeks, pulling a breathy gasp from you. The tenderness in his gaze shifts to something else. Hunger.

“ _This_ is why I want you,” he growls. “These tasty curves.” He spreads your legs and you instinctively wrap them around his waist. He emphasizes his desire by grinding his hard cock against your sex. “This tight ass. Those plump lips. That cute face. Your smile—god, you have the sun in your smile, cariño. You’re full of life, so easy to make you smile.”

When he kisses you it’s awkward and fumbly until you grip his tight curls and take control, deepening the kiss and biting his lip. He groans and grants you entrance to slip your tongue in his mouth and explore. Your hips move in rhythm with his and he rewards you with breathless moans that do wonders for your confidence. A wet spot is forming on your panties and you’re desperate for him to do more than just grope your ass and hump you.

“Please,” you beg once you climb up for air. With little effort, he carries you to the bedroom, sucking the delicate flesh of your neck. He falls onto the bed with you, kissing and biting every naked inch and tugging at your clothes. You put a hand to his chest and he takes the hint and sits up.

You move quickly, shedding your shirt and skirt. Apparently not quickly enough, because he’s on you with a passion, destroying your bra and panties as he tears them off you.

“Hey, I liked those,” you whine. He kisses you hard and rough.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he pants. Now that he has you bare, he sits back on his heels to enjoy the view.

You must look like a mess, laying there on his sumptuous bed. From your position, you can see the mark your slick has left on his pants. Reaper sighs in satisfaction and you blush, attempting to cover your body. He gently grabs your wrists, kissing the knuckles on each hand before letting them fall by your head.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he soothes.

“Reaper…”

“Gabriel. Call me Gabriel.” He memorizes your curves, caressing your tummy and your pillowy breasts. Cool fingers twist your nipples and massage your breasts, and you reward him with gasps and squeaks. “Such gorgeous tits,” he purrs.

With his tongue he traces the underside of each breast, peppering the lines left by your bra with kisses. He nuzzles his face into the valley between them and sighs as if it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever experienced. He sucks on a nipple, teasing it with a hint of teeth. You cry out and yank his hair. He chuckles against your skin. “Such cute noises, too.”

He lights a fire in you like no one ever has, and your nerves sing as he trails kisses down your chest and abdomen to your mound. Running a finger along your slit, he hums and nips at your inner thigh.

“You’re so wet for me.” His gaze pierces through you. “Has anyone ever made you feel this good?”

“N-never,” you reply shakily. You can’t remember the last time a partner treated you with such reverence.

When Reaper spreads your folds, it’s like he’s worshipping before an altar, the way he gasps and laps at your clit makes you melt into the sheets. “You deserve so much better.” You hold back a scream when he stops to squeeze your thighs and nuzzle his cheek against them. “You’re soft and warm,” he says, leaving a hickey right near your heat. “I could die happy with my face in your cunt.”

You squirm and stammer out, “W-well, I did snap a guy’s neck once…with my thighs.”

Lust and mischief cross his expression. “Did you now?”

“Mhm.” You flush a bright crimson. Gently repositioning his head between your legs, you clench the muscles hidden beneath your plush exterior, clamping him in place as you mime sharply twisting your hips to snap his vertebrae. Somehow that manages to turn him on even more.

“Oh, you are _very_ naughty. You could kill me with your thighs any day.” And with that, he buries his face into your pussy, fucking you with his tongue. Despite your display of power, he has no trouble keeping your legs apart as he goes to work. He alternates between shallow thrusts and sucking on your clit. In seconds, you’re a writhing, babbling mess, gripping the sheets because oh god, does he know how to use his mouth. But he’s still Reaper. And Reaper can be so very cruel…

He tortures you, building you close to orgasm only to tease you by kissing your thighs or licking your backdoor. You know he loves watching you suffer because his red eyes are fixated on you as you hold back your moans.

And then you cry out, pleading, “Gabriel! Gabriel, _please_!”

He obliges you, sucking so hard on your clit you think you’ll die from the overstimulation, and curling a finger inside just right to rub against that bundle of nerves. You arch off the bed, clutching his hair and practically crushing him between your legs as you ride out the most intense climax of your life. He draws it out, continuing his ministrations until you finally give out.

Your legs are shaking, your whole body is shaking, and you swear you blacked out at some point because there are spots in your vision and you feel like you’re floating. It takes some time before you remember how to breathe, how to speak. You glance down at him, and you hide your face when you realize you squirted all over his face. He revels in it, making a show of licking your juices from his lips and fingers.

“You taste good, baby. Very creamy~.”

You’re not sure why you say it, but in the tiniest voice you blurt, “I’m sorry.”

The harsh slap to your thigh is unexpected, though he’s quick to soothe it with gentle rubs.

“I love you, but I’m gonna break you if you apologize like that again.”

 _Oh_.

He realizes what he said the same time you do. Reaper can’t bear to meet your gaze, shame and fear clouding his desire. As you sit up, he moves to the edge of the bed. You reach out slowly and he shivers at the feeling of your warm hand on his cheek.

“You love me.” You almost couldn’t believe it, but now that you’ve said it aloud you’re overflowing with joy and you cling to those words. Tears start to well up, happy tears that he mistakes for something else.

“I…I’m sorry. I know I’m a monster, not the lover you deserve.” It’s your turn to stun him with a kiss. You’re rough and messy as you try to drown his self-pity in your passion. For a few seconds he freezes and just takes it, and then he returns the treatment, pulling you to straddle his lap.

“Don’t you dare eat me out like that and then walk away,” you say when you finally separate. Tugging on his shirt, you lock eyes and silently ask permission.

“I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”

“I know.”

“It’s not a pretty sight.”

“I don’t care.”

You can’t stop your smug grin when his cock twitches beneath your heat. His cock painfully hard, untouched this whole time. All it takes is a single roll of your hips for him to shove you onto the bed and tear off his clothes. If you weren’t so excited you would have begged him for a show.

The first things you notice are the scars. Bullet wounds and cuts decorate his torso. Patches of what look like burn marks climb up his legs and chest. Black mist emits from these spots, and when you caress his form, the shadowy tendrils come out to greet you and wrap around your fingers. They seem to purr and they massage you with their gentle vibrations.

Reaper’s skin is no longer ashy, returning to an almost healthy brown the more you touch him. You’re surprised he’s so still given how aroused he is. He watches the tendrils slide up your arms and nuzzle your neck.

“It tickles,” you giggle, forgetting about the burning need between your legs. You look up and he’s wearing that smile again.

“You’re something else,” he sighs. “A smart person would be afraid.”

“Hard to be afraid when you’re so eager.”

“Can’t help myself when you look this fucking gorgeous.”

“I’m a bit surprised how quickly this is going,” you tell him rather sheepishly. “I mean, you’re Talon’s best, you’re _amazing_ and I…I hardly know you at all. I never thought of you like this because I didn’t think you’d ever like me.”

“We can get to know each other tonight.”

He pets your hair as one of the tendrils gives you a quick peck before they all recede back to their master. With a gentle tug, he reminds you of his aching need, though you’re in no hurry. You move your hands down his chest and abdomen, tracing the muscles. Then you rub his own muscular thighs and press feathery kisses everywhere but where he wants it, payback for his playful torture. He groans and thrusts into your touch.

“You’re lucky I’m nice or I’d shove my cock down your throat.” It’s an empty threat, though you stop your teasing. He’s been very good, placing your pleasure before his own. Surely that deserves a reward.

You give his cock a few strokes, lewdly sampling his pre-cum and licking along the slit. He shivers in anticipation. Then you take him completely, right down to the base, and you relish the stream of praise and curses that flow from him.

“Ah—fuck! That’s it, that’s it, baby.” Every last ounce of control is keeping him from relentlessly fucking your throat; you can feel the twitches and gasps as he holds back. There’s a burning on your scalp as he yanks your hair, begging you to move. And then his head falls back and he lets out the filthiest moan you’ve ever heard when you start to bob your head. You go slow and deep, pulling off until the tip presses against your lips and then sucking all the way back down. His grip loosens and he gives up control, though he can’t stop the occasional thrust. “Your mouth feels so good…”

You close your eyes and hum, thinking only of the way his cock tastes and the way he sings your praises in a jumble of Spanish that you can’t understand but fuck, he makes it sound beautiful. You cradle his balls and caress his hips. You stroke the underside of his cock with your tongue. He’s big, but not enough to make you choke, and you can’t wait to feel him inside you. Once he’s sloppy and wet and you’ve worked up a good rhythm, you speed up and he struggles to keep it together.

“Oh fuck—baby, I’m gonna…gonna cum,” he pants. You dig your nails into his hip and he watches you through lidded eyes. All it takes for him to cum is you staring up at him. Sticky cum coats your throat with every pulse of his cock.

At last you come up for air, and he immediately smothers you with a kiss. He pulls away just as breathless as you.

“God damn…you have an amazing mouth.” You beam with pride—all disheveled and flushed, your lips red.

You’re excited for what’s next. A hand to your chest makes you ease onto your back, arms by your head. Reaper spreads your legs and briefly slides a finger over your folds. Then he climbs on top. Chaste kisses ease your frantic heart. You hold each other’s gaze.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes.” You don’t hesitate.

With a single thrust, he fills you. You cry out at the sensation, having gone so long without a man inside you. You’d almost forgotten how good it felt. He pauses, letting you both adjust. Instinctively you wrap your arms and legs around him. At first his thrusts are light and slow, as if he’s trying to commit to memory the way your heat hugs his cock. Gradually he picks up speed, fucking you hard and deep. Quiet gasps and moans escape you, and Reaper growls in your ear. It’s good yet you find yourself writhing, trying to take more of him, trying to find the right angle. Reaper picks up on your desperation.

“What is it? Tell me what you need,” he purrs.

“I—I need—ah!” A particularly delicious thrust cuts off all train of thought.

“Use your words.”

“I need more, Gabriel,” you beg. A wicked grin spreads across his face.

“You want me to fuck you harder?” You whimper and nod furiously. He chuckles darkly.

It all happens so fast—he untangles your legs and puts them over his shoulders so he can pin you down, practically folding you in half as he fucks you raw. The new position allows him to brush against your g-spot and bottom out inside you, hitting your cervix. The pleasure more than makes up for the pain, and you’re content to give up control and let him pound you. Coherent speech is beyond you, all you can do is whimper and mewl. Not even covering your mouth can hide the noises you make.

He looks beautiful, pinning you and fucking you like a primal beast, his eyes glowing with ecstasy. He’s better at forming words, and he doesn’t hesitate to tell you how much he’s wanted to do you like this.

“I wanted to fuck you that day on the shooting range,” he confides. “You made me so damn hard. Every time I saw that ass and these fat tits, I wanted you. You’re _mine_.”

“I’m yours.” You repeat it like a mantra and it sounds so right. You belong to him. _You belong to him_.

You’re getting closer and closer to your peak, your walls are so sensitive and every thrust slams his hips against your ass. You’re lucky you’re soft or he would break you. He might break you yet, you’re so close, you’re right _there_ on the edge.

He knows you’re close. He can feel you clench and your insides beg for sweet release. He crushes your lips against his and roughly rubs your clit.

One. Two. _Three_ deep thrusts and you break, clenching down around his shaft, legs spasming, every nerve in your body alight with brilliant, burning pleasure. You scramble for purchase, nails raking across his back.

“Gabriel!”

He growls, pounding you as you cum on his cock, and before long he’s breaking apart with you. With a strangled moan and a few sloppy thrusts, he finishes inside you, filling your womb with his hot, sticky seed.

“Good girl,” he pants. You stay tangled up, his forehead pressed to yours as you both come down from your high. He peppers your cheek and neck with messy kisses. “My beautiful girl…”

Eventually he pulls away, you whine at the emptiness, already missing the way he fills you. He’s slick with your juices, just as his pour from your now gaping pussy. He lies beside you and brushes the hair from your face.

“I love you,” you say breathlessly. He hums and rests his head on your chest, draping an arm around your waist. You remain there, basking in the afterglow…

A quiet gurgle shakes you from your lounging. Reaper chuckles and kisses your tummy.

“Hungry?” he asks. “We never had dessert.”

“Maybe,” you say, unsure about dessert quite yet after that nice dinner. “I am thirsty though.”

“I’ll take care of it, you just relax, okay?” He changes to his wraith form and swoops out of the room.

Now that you aren’t busy being fucked into the sheets, you look around the room, finally noticing how plush everything is. Pillows are piled high along the headboard. The comforter is thick and fluffy, and whatever the comfy mattress is made of, you’re pretty sure it’s expensive. You occupy yourself arranging the pillows so you can fall back into them and still be fairly upright. You drape a corner of the sheet over your hips for modesty’s sake. God, you feel like royalty, full of good food and good dick, glowing from the best sex you’ve ever had. If your pussy wasn’t still tingling, you’d swear this was a dream.

Reaper returns with a couple glasses and a bottle of water. The water is set on one of the nightstands and he hands you the glass. It’s yellow and bubbly. He laughs when he catches you sniffing it.

“It’s just some sparkling cider, there’s no alcohol in it. I didn’t plan on getting you drunk. I thought you could use something flavorful.”

You give him a bright smile. “Thank you.” It’s not overly sweet, striking a nice balance and sating your thirst. Reaper sprawls beside you, sipping from his own glass. He isn’t subtle about stealing glances at you, and if you weren’t so blissed out you’d be embarrassed.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a nice date,” you remark instead. He stretches over and traces patterns on your hip.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” he says. “Any man would be lucky to have a woman like you.”

“Hasn’t really worked out that way,” you say with a hint of bitterness and self-pity, quickly chasing it with a sip of cider because you are not going to let those thoughts taint your evening. “Most of my lovers were interested in hitting it and quitting it, didn’t think I was worth getting to know.”

“You are wonderful,” he says firmly. “You may have killed before, but you're soft and full of light." Shameful red eyes meet yours. “When I’m around you, I can feel your soul—you make me feel so warm and alive, cariño.”

Reaper buries his face in the covers and admiration swells in you. You pet his hair and he hesitantly looks back up at you. You greet him with a tender smile.

“I don’t think anyone has ever complimented me like that,” you say truthfully. He kisses an exposed bit of your hip before switching positions to lay his head in your lap. You finish your drink and reach for the water bottle just to get a bit more hydration in you. Sighing and reclining in the mountain of pillows, you consider asking him about that dessert. You look down to ask when you finally see it. In your relaxed state, you hadn’t noticed his still present need.

“Gabe, why didn’t you tell me you’re still hard?” you pout. Did he think you wouldn’t care? Did he think you were too tired to bother?

Reaper shrugs and shifts uncomfortably. “Side effect of the SEP,” he explained, “it increases stamina. And…it’s been a while.” You close the bottle and set it aside. He grabs you by the wrist when you straddle him. “Hey, you don’t have to if you’re not up to it.”

Brushing off his hand and his concern, you squat over his cock, your cunt still slick and ready to go.

“You don’t—“

“But I _want_ to,” you assert. He studies you, looking at your heat then back to your confident expression. Conceding defeat, he allows himself to relax. You grin smugly as you grab his cock and glide the head into place. “Tell me if I’m too…heavy, okay?”

He nods. You lower yourself onto his girth, moaning lightly. Reaper’s eyes shut and his head falls back as he moans with you. He grips your waist. Once you’re at the base, you wiggle your hips, giggling when a string of curses tumbles out of him. You don’t have it in you to tease, so you start bouncing, gradually picking up speed until the only noise in the room are your synchronous sounds of pleasure and the wet slap of your ass on his pelvis. When he finally opens his eyes, they dart between your tits and where your bodies are joined. After a few moments, you begin to tire, bracing your hands on his chest to hold yourself up. He picks up the slack, thrusting up into you and hitting a sweet spot.

“Oh f-fuuuck~!” you gasp. Your walls are getting sensitive again, and your legs are shaky and weak. You want to keep going.

Listening to your desperate whimpers, he gives you what you need to keep going. His eyes glow and the shadowy wraith tentacles appear, wrapping around your legs and cupping your ass to lend you support. He removes your hands from his chest and laces his fingers with yours.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up. You keep bouncing like a good girl.”

You obey, every noise you earn from him filling you with pride. It’s easier to ride him like this. The tendrils act the same as his hands around your waist, pulling you down hard on his cock while he thrusts up. They save you the energy of rising back up, doing the work for you.

“T-tha- _ah_!-Th-thank you,” you stutter. He gives you that sly grin again.

The buildup is quick; you’re both so worn and raw from your earlier orgasms. When his thrusts become erratic you know he’s close. Each clench of your walls winds you tighter.

“Baby, I’m…” That’s all he gets out before his eyes go wide and he’s gasping as he rams his cock into your cervix, filling you with warmth. Your orgasm hits you and you lose what’s left of your strength, collapsing onto his chest with a pitiful whine. Reaper smashes his lips against yours as you ride it out together.

You don’t separate for a long while, his cock softening inside you as you drift back down to the real world. Eventually, you slide off, flopping unceremoniously beside him. More of his spunk oozes out of you and you’re not sure you can move anything below the waist.

“Wow…” He trails off, unable to think of anything intelligent to say after that. You congratulate yourself on leaving the famed Reaper speechless. Time passes and you somehow find the will to sit up again. He sits up as well, nuzzling your shoulder.

“So I take it you enjoyed it?” He lets out a weak laugh.

“I haven’t fucked like that in…a _very_ long time. Thank you.” You prop yourself on the pillows.

“I think I’ve earned that dessert now.”

“Oh, you’ve more than earned it,” he says before he lazily rises in a shroud of black, slinking to the kitchen and back with the two desserts and a pair of forks. He leans on you while you both eat. It’s good, just like the other gifts he’s brought you, but you’re focused on his present warmth and the weight of him.

“You’re welcome to stay,” he tells you after finishing his treat. “I won’t kick you out like some asshole. And you can use the shower too, if you want.”

You raise a brow. “Does it have adjustable pressure and heads?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck yes. Never expected you to enjoy many comforts or finer things, but you’re full of surprises.” He snorts in amusement.

“I try my best.”

You give him a peck on the lips. “Since you’re letting me stay, I’ll do the dishes for you…Once my legs can work.”

He sighs and lays his head on your chest. “You are perfect.”

~~~

The next morning, you receive a text from Sombra.

_I think I figured out who your secret admirer is.  –S_


End file.
